Romeo And Juliet
by The Last Letter
Summary: Because there's no such thing as a love story; not in Panem. (Multiple Pairings)
1. Marvel & Glimmer

_A love struck Romeo, sings the streets of serenade_

_Laying everybody low with a love song that he made_

Marvel had always been something special. The entire district would light up when he strutted through the street, holding his noble head higher than everyone else's. He knew, as every other person in the district did, that the year he was eighteen, he would be the male tribute. He would bring glory to their district because everyone knew that he was _Marvel_; that he was unstoppable.

He knew it too. He would look around his district, around at the people who would always look back at him. He had a dark twinkle in his eyes as he flexed his muscles, showing off for the girls who would swoon if he so much as glanced their way. He was admired and adored; everyone knew his name, everyone knew who he was. He had his share of girls and he had his share of laughing adventures with the rowdier boys in and around the district.

And I was completely overlooked.

I was beautiful, yes, but there was an abundance of beautiful women and girls in District 1. I was nothing special. Like every other girl in the district, I was also crazy for him. We all knew better; he would never settle down. He would go off to the games at eighteen and when he returned, he would be just as reckless as the other Victors. Yet, watching him goof around with all of his bravado, I could only think of what he would do when he found out that I would be his District partner.

I was destined to be his female tribute.

I drew in a thick breath as Gloss cleared his throat. The room – full of teenage hopefuls preparing for their own games – quieted. They knew that the tributes for the upcoming 74th Hunger Games were to be announced today. While everyone knew that Marvel was to be the male tribute, had known it since he was a young boy, no one had any clue who the female tribute would be. I ran a hand through my long hair, waiting for my name to be uttered. I knew that I didn't stand out as person, as a fighter, but I knew that I _could_. I had been, like every other child in my district, in training since I was five years old.

"Marvel," Gloss drawled, not one for theatrics when there was work that could be done, "and Glimmer."

While applause had grown for Marvel – boys had clapped him on the back and girls had batted their eyes – everything stopped when my name rolled off Gloss' tongue. They all looked my way curiously. I could read it in their eyes, "_Her? Why her? Surely there is someone better than her? What's Glimmer ever done?"_

I could sense Marvel's eyes on me. Hesitantly, I looked away from my own pale hands and looked toward him. He was already on his feet, simple arrogance filling even his walk. He approached me and held out his hand. It was calloused from the weapons he had become adept at using over the years. I put my more feminine but no less worked hand in his. It was warmer than I thought it would be.

"Glimmer," he said, his deep voice saying my name for the first time. "Welcome to the 74th Hunger Games."

I put on a gorgeous, wicked smile, already trying on fronts to play for the Capitol audiences. "Welcome to the 74th Hunger Games, Marvel," I echoed with a sweet voice.

He grinned. He pulled his arms back, bringing me to my feet. I dropped his hand after that, as though he were scalding me. Tributes, once named, were not supposed to become overly friendly with one another. Still, we walked close to one another, shoulders nearly brushing, toward where Gloss was waiting for us, Cashmere lurking in the background.

Gloss clapped his hands loudly. "Everyone back to training; if you are no longer eligible for the Hunger Games either leave the training grounds or help the younger potentials. Thank you!"

He turned smartly on his heel, leaving Marvel and I to trail along behind him. He led us away from the others and to one of the back rooms where we would train, one on one, with him and Cashmere for the next year. It was filled with advanced weapons, textbooks, and computerized training programs and simulations. I felt a small bead of unwelcome fear enter me at the sight of a deadly spear. Though there were many spears to train with on the grounds I was used to there was something about the look of this one – so pointed, so deadly – that made my stomach churn.

Reality confronted me brutally in that moment. I was going into the arena in roughly a year; I was going to be in the fight for my life and I would not win. I felt my heart skip a beat at the cruel thought; I would not win. I was going to die like so many other tributes before me. I may have had a fighting chance – I _was_ a Career after all; I was no slouch with a weapon – but I had to fight Marvel. And as I had learned from years of being around him that one did not fight Marvel. One lost to Marvel.

I dared sneak a glance at the handsome boy next to me and the only thing I could hope for my future was that he not be the one to end me.

_Find a streetlight, steps out of the shade_

_Says something like, "You and me, babe, how about it?"_

I curled my legs up under my body, glancing up at the sky. I brushed a hand through my hair, twisting it around my injured palm. I had scarred it trying to shoot a bow earlier that afternoon, only for Cashmere to shake her pretty head at me and tell me to stop; that I couldn't shoot an arrow and that I should stop trying before I killed her, or worse, Marvel.

I sucked in a deep breath, studying the dark night. I liked it when it was late, when all was calm and I could be alone with my thoughts. I didn't have much of a chance to do that these days. My life was filled with training and more training. My body, though it had never been unhealthy, was now a finely-tuned machine. I was more muscular than ever; every ounce of femininity I had once possessed had given way to my new physique. I ran my hand along where my curves had once been. I never thought I would miss my layer of body fat.

"Glimmer."

At first I thought I had imagined my name crawling from the darkness. But when it came again, I finally looked out at the street, squinting at my surroundings.

"Glimmer," Marvel repeated, stepping into the light so that I could see who was calling to me.

"Hello," I breathed, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming at three in the morning, hanging out of my windowsill in my revealing night clothes. "What are you doing here?"

He kicked at the grass. "I was out and about; saw your light was on." He shrugged casually, "that's all."

"Oh." I looked down, brushing my bare toes against the earth. "Marvel, can I ask you something?"

"Sure." He moved closer, anticipating conversation.

I glanced up at him, already blushing at what I was about to ask. "Do you ever get frightened?"

He scoffed. "Me? Frightened? What could possibly frighten me?"

I fixed him with a stare. "Death." I said bluntly.

He paused. "I'm not going to die."

No, of course he wouldn't. He was unstoppable, Marvel; the great fighter of District 1.

"I am," I breathed, with no intention of actually voicing my thoughts. Yet, there they were, voiced to the world for the first time. My secret; my fear. I was going to die and it was going to happen unbearably soon.

Marvel looked awkward. "Glimmer . . . "

"You don't have to say anything." I interrupted.

We were both silent for a long time.

I'd gotten so wrapped up in my thoughts – how it was going to happen, how long I could make it, what kind of legacy I wanted to leave in District 1 – that I had nearly forgotten that Marvel was there. It wasn't until I felt his fingers, light and spidery, running up my bare thigh that I suddenly snapped my attention back to him. I looked over at him and he grinned cheekily back.

"Tributes aren't . . . " I stuttered.

"Tributes schmibutes," he dismissed. "C'mon, Glimmer. You're beautiful. And I've wanted you since you were announced as my female tribute. It's agony wrestling you every day when I can't do anything more than that; when I can't change our fate."

I slipped from my windowsill down into the grass beside him. My heart was in my throat – I had never done anything like this before, but I knew that he had based on the tales the gossipy girls swapped with one another in school. Yet, I threw my leg over his thighs so I was straddling his lap. He placed his hands around my waist, drawing up the bottom of my night dress, as I dropped my lips to his. We fumbled in a tangle of limbs for a minute before the moment finally came. There was a pain from my waist when we came together.

As he sucked on my neck, giving way to pleasure, I rolled my eyes up at the moon. I wondered if this was what heaven felt like; being part of something more than yourself. I dug my fingernails into his shoulder blades, feeling his own muscled body moving beneath my hands, and memorized the feeling. I memorized the feeling of two heartbeats, of limbs moving in tandem to bring about grace. I wanted to hold on to the feeling of breath mingling in lovely passion because I knew tomorrow our bodies would meet again on a training ground.

There would be no grace to be found there. When we moved together on the training ground, under the watchful eyes of Cashmere and Gloss, there would only be bloodshed on our minds. We would only be thinking of an unknown arena where it wouldn't matter if we were popular; if we were the chosen ones. There it would only matter if we could survive; if we knew how to fight and hunt and keep breathing through terror. It would only matter if we had the drive to win and the drive to fight the memories once we carried them home.

I felt Marvel's sweat on my chest and wondered what he would be like when he returned home. The Victors were known to be reckless, known to be partygoers. Yet I saw the pain in Cashmere and Gloss' eyes as they trained us, as they fixed our stances and barked advice. I had seen their own bloody games televised for all to see and wondered if they had ever looked down at their own hands and thought about how they had taken a life.

Everyone thought the Victors had it all. Everyone thought the Victors were the ones to be with their riches and their fame.

I had come to find, since becoming a Tribute, that it was not the case. Though the thought of death scared me, I think I would rather die than have to live with the truth of being a Victor – of being a killer. I think Victors are scarred and haunted; people to be pitied and understood rather than envied and idolized. I don't think Victors are the life of the party because they want to be but because they have to be; they have to prove there is some life still residing in them, that they are not just built out of a Capitol arena.

Looking at Marvel's shadowed face, gorgeous in the moonlight, I knew that he had the same thoughts; he would just never admit them. I wrapped my legs tighter around his waist, holding him to me and giving him a feeling of life so that he would have something to hold onto after everything else was gone.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my beta: Noble6. The song is **_**Romeo And Juliet **_**by**_** The Killers.**_

**~TLL~**


	2. Mr & Mrs, Everdeen

_Juliet says, "Hey, it's Romeo, you nearly gave me a heart attack"_

_He's underneath the window, she's singing_

"What are you doing here?" She whispers anxiously.

I want to chuckle at her expressions, about how worried she looks. The negative expression doesn't fit right on her pretty face with the delicate features. I reach out my hand and rub my thumb along her jawbone, hoping that I don't smear her pale town skin with the coal dust I tracked with me from the Seam.

"I wanted to see you," I respond. "Why? Am I not allowed to come visit the beautiful girl I'm in love with?"

She sighs. "You know what my parents would say –"

"That is a Seam boy and my daughter is much too good to be _seen_ with riff-raff like that, let alone be kissing one." I imitated her mother's high pitched voice as best as I could. Though I thought I was quite spot-on, she didn't laugh.

"That's exactly what my mother would say before my father shot you."

I laughed. "What's your father going to shoot me with, darling? Weapons aren't allowed in the Districts, remember?"

"He'd take your head off with a kitchen knife," she argued with conviction. "And I can't bear to see you get hurt just because you wanted to see me."

"What if I thought it was worth it?" I asked, quirking an eyebrow. "What if I thought the danger of your father wielding a kitchen knife hardly mattered in comparison to seeing your beautiful face?"

She rolled her eyes good naturedly at my heavy theatrics. "Then I would say you're a sweet boy."

I smiled. "Sweet enough to get a kiss from said beautiful girl?"

She glanced over her shoulder, trying to peek into her house. Yet, the whole thing was dark. Her parents were tucked into bed, just like she had been before I had sauntered over and interrupted her slumber. Satisfied that no one was spying on us, she slid her hand around the back of my neck, and I willingly obliged to the pull. I pulled her tightly against me, not caring that my hands were probably leaving filthy traces on her expensive, overly fancy nightclothes.

She clung back to me just as desperately, kissing me until we were both out of air and then kissing me again. I couldn't bear to release my hold on her at all – every moment we had together was precious; stolen. We both knew that we could never have one another; the townsfolk didn't mix well with the dirty little tramps that resided in the Seam. It was a point that she mentioned often – along with her parents disapproval if we were to ever tell them that we had fallen in love. She talked about a baker too, about how her parents had seemingly chosen him to be her destined partner. I hated when she talked like that; talked about an end. As far as I was selfishly concerned, she would be mine forever.

"You're beautiful," I murmured into the soft, florally scented crook of her neck. I twirled my fingers through her long blonde hair and thought of how true the words were. Though she was a classic town beauty, there was something more about her. Yes, most of the people from town had blonde hair and blue eyes and pale, pale skin. Yet, there was something beautifully magnetic about her – something that made all of these traits somehow more. Just by wearing these stereotypical features, she made them more beautiful.

"And you are handsome," she returned back, kissing the very tip of my nose.

I wanted to laugh at that. How could she ever see me under the coal dust that coated my skin? I was born covered in coal; I doubted anyone had ever seen what I truly looked like. Besides, what was so beautiful about olive-skin and dark hair? I blended into the crowd – or was just never seen at all. Not that I minded; I didn't want to shine. I didn't need to. I was loved by her and there could be nothing better in comparison.

"More handsome than your baker?" I taunted.

She looked almost offended that I had mentioned him – the boy from the life she was allowed to live.

"Yes," she said firmly. "More handsome than a thousand of the baker."

I smiled at her. "Funny; I thought the handsome men always got the lady."

She scoffed, showing disdain for her parents' ideals for once. "No; the rich, respectable choices do."

I released her. I stood in front of her and fell into a bow that was meant to be comical. "I'm a respectable choice. Hello sir, as you can see, I scrubbed off three out of four layers of dirt in order to meet your acquaintance today. And, as you may notice, I even wore my fancy, clean clothes – why, they were washed but a week ago!"

She giggled behind her hand. "I wish I could marry you."

"You could," I said bluntly, "but I understand why you don't."

"You are my first choice," she informed me. "If this were a different world –"

"If this were a different world we could be happy together." I pulled her to me again. I picked out a tune my mother used to use to sing me to sleep, and I sung it in her ear as I turned us in slow, relaxing circles.

Her fingers dug into my shoulder blades as she pulled me closer to her. Though I think she was trying to hide it, I could feel her trembling; I could feel the hot wetness on my shoulder that signified her tears.

She stretched onto her tiptoes, bringing my ear to her lips. "Ask me again," she begged, referencing the night not too long ago when I had tried to propose.

So, I took a step back. I took both of her hands in mine and sunk to the ground, down onto one knee. I fumbled for my inside jacket pocket where I had tucked her ring – the one I had desperately tried to keep from getting covered in the dirt that lived on everything in the Seam.

"Darling – I know that it may not be fair to ask you to give up the life you have here, and the way you live now, but you must know that, no matter what our life in the Seam is like together, I will make you the happiest out of everyone. I love you, with my heart, my soul, and my body. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

There were tears streaming freely down her face now. "I know no one will like this, but I have to make myself happy, not them. I love you too, with all that I am. I will marry you."

I jumped to my feet, wrapped my arm around her waist, and kissed her deeply. Nothing could be better than this.

"_Hey, la, my boyfriend's back_

_You shouldn't come around here, singing up at people like that_

_Anyway what you gonna do about it?"_

"Come on, Katniss." I hoisted my daughter – my first baby, the second love of my life – up onto my hip. Her tiny hands tangled in my thick hair, hanging on.

"Can we go see Mommy?" She asked, her high voice sweet.

"Yes. And guess what?" I told her, feeling a warmth grow in my belly as I even thought of the news that I would deliver to Katniss.

"What?" She looked up at me – large grey eyes anticipating my next words.

Before I could utter a word, I dropped a kiss to her forehead, between the strands of dark hair. She looked like me – pure Seam – but with her mother's beauty; though she had the same basic features as most of those who surrounded her, she still stood out. She wrinkled her nose at my show of affection before throwing her arms around my neck tightly, kissing my cheek in return.

"What?" She pushed again.

"The baby arrived."

"The baby?" Katniss repeated, brow furrowing. "What kind of a baby?"

"A girl baby," I told her. "You have a sister."

The house was coming into view; the house I shared with my beautiful wife and our two beautiful children. Though the past few years hadn't been easy – I couldn't give her the town life she was used to, but she had fully embraced the Seam and all that came with being married to a lowly coal miner – they were still the best years of my life. I picked up my pace, eager to greet my newest daughter and to see my eldest greet her new sister.

I pushed open the door, calling out my wife's name.

"Mommy?" Katniss cried, squirming down from my arms.

Together we approached the bed where she was holding a bundle of blankets. I picked up Katniss again, taking a seat on the bed and placing my dark-haired child on my lap. She reached out her pudgy hands, aiming for the blanket. She knew what was contained in that bundle and her severe curiosity was burning.

"Do you want to meet your sister?"

Katniss nodded eagerly, but as she readjusted the new baby in her arms, Katniss leaned back into my chest. I secured my arms around her and leaned forward. I had been waiting nearly as long as my wife to meet this new life we had created together and my excitement was reaching its tipping point.

"Here she is," she trilled, almost as though it were a song.

The blanket fell away from the new baby's rounded face. She had fine, pale hair – almost the exact shade of her mother's. And when her eyes opened, they were a bright blue, brighter than any of the eye colours I had even seen in town. As much as Katniss was my image, this new child was hers.

"What's her name?" Katniss asked. She reached out a hand, almost touching the silent baby who was watching her sister with as much interest as Katniss was watching her with.

"I don't know," we answered in unison. We hadn't wanted to talk about names – I was too afraid of jinxing it and she hadn't wanted to decide on anything until we knew the gender for sure. Though all of the old wives tales had told us that both our children would be girls, she was a skeptic at heart and needed to see it for herself. We had gone through the exact same process when Katniss was still in the womb.

"Why?" Katniss looked up at me, brow creased. "_Everything_ has a name. You teach me all of the names."

"That I do," I agreed.

"So why doesn't my sister have a name?"

"We need to pick one out for her, sweetheart," my wife explained gently.

"Oh." Katniss pursed her lips. "When will you do that?"

"As soon as we find one that fits." I jostled my daughter on my knee. "Do you have any ideas?"

My wife gave me a look for asking our four-year-old daughter what to name our newborn daughter but I brushed it off. It wouldn't do any harm to ask Katniss about her new sister; I thought it might help them bond. Katniss had already proven that she was a solitary creature by nature and I wanted to help her accept the new baby in any way that I possibly could.

"I'm a plant." Katniss stated and I nearly laughed.

"Yes, you are." I had named her after the Katniss plant – something that had once been my only source of food and the reason for my survival to this age.

"She's a plant." Katniss said seriously.

"What kind of a plant?" She asked, looking down at the bright face of our newly dubbed plant.

"A flower." Katniss crawled out of my lap and onto the other side of her mother's lap. She let the baby take her thumb into her tiny hand. "She's a Primrose."

I looked into my wife's eyes and saw her blue eyes warm.

"Primrose," we said together.

I smiled. I kissed my wife on the lips before kissing each of my daughter's foreheads.

I couldn't have asked for a better life.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my beta: Noble6. The song is Romeo And Juliet by The Killers.**

**~TLL~**


	3. Haymitch & Maysilee

_Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start_

_And I bet and you exploded in my heart_

Everyone in the whole of District 12 knew exactly who Maysilee was. She was bright, she was beautiful, and she was kind. Those three attributes did not always coincide but they did in Maysilee, and the result was stunning. She loved every person she came across and every person loved her in return. However, when her name was called for the Reaping, she was not surprised when no one volunteered to take her place. She understood why no one had – even why her own sister wouldn't. The Hunger Games were not something to be entered in lightly and people loved their own lives much more than they could ever love her.

She forgave them all for it. If she were in their position, she would not have volunteered either. Still, the walk up to the stage was the worst few minutes of her life. Her legs shook the entire time she walked; she knew her hands were trembling between the folds of her new dress. When she was standing on the stage, overlooking the citizens of her District, she tried to put on a brave face. She tried to look as though she weren't afraid at all. She found her sister's eye and attempted a smile – she knew, out of everyone, her sister would be taking this the hardest.

"And now for our male tribute!" The Capitol woman sang. She dipped her hand in the giant glass bowl that contained all of the male's names.

Maysilee felt her stomach turn as she looked at her friends and schoolmates. Who among them would join her on this stage? Because this was a Quarter Quell three of her friends would join her. Maysilee swallowed hard, trying to keep her tears down. She didn't want to cry; didn't want anyone to see her sadness. She wanted to be remembered in District 12 as being happy and cheerful; always bringing a smile to others.

She thought that she would smile if she were left on this stage alone.

The Capitol woman called the name of the first male tribute. He was seventeen years old and also from the town – he lived across from Maysilee's family. She shook his hand and tried to reassure him. They had grown up together and now they would die together, or close to it. It was a sickening thought.

The next female tribute joined them. Maysilee didn't know her well, but tried to offer her some form of comfort. The girl turned up her nose at both of her fellow tributes and stood angrily at the edge of the stage, arms crossed tightly across her small chest.

The final Tribute was named and Maysilee felt a tug in the pit of her stomach. Haymitch. She knew who Haymitch was – he was impossibly silent and surly; the one person in all of District 12 she could never reach. He sauntered onto the stage, positively exuding teenage angst, and stood next to her. There they were – the four tributes of District 12.

The goodbyes to her family – her final words and kisses to her sister – went by faster than Maysilee could have imagined them going. Before she knew it, she was ripped from her family's arms, knowing that she could only return to them in the simple pine coffin offered to a Tribute. By the time she was on the Tribute train, rolling toward the Capitol, tears were streaming down her face and she could do nothing to stop them.

The Capitol woman patted her on the shoulder sympathetically, but did not stay to console her. Maysilee was glad for this –she didn't want a stranger patting her on the back and pretending that they understood. Although, she knew the only reason the Capitol woman wasn't staying was because the other female tribute was having a mental breakdown in her train compartment and was breaking things. Maysilee felt bad for the other girl and wished she could go and comfort her, but she had no idea how to do that. She couldn't even comfort herself.

Maysilee stood up and began to wander the train. She wondered if there was a way to get outside, to taste the fresh air. She wondered if there was fresh air at the Capitol – air like there was in District 12. She finally found a door at the very end of the train that looked like it might lead to outside. She pushed it open. A loud noise filled her ears and, with a start, she realized that it was the sound of the wind. She hesitated in the doorway for a moment before she stepped out onto the platform.

"Jumping, sweetheart?"

The rough voice made her jump. Maysilee's hand flew to her now racing heart and she spun around. "Haymitch!" She gasped, "You startled me."

The boy shrugged a thin shoulder, unconcerned with her reaction. "You didn't answer me." He pointed out after a pause.

"No, I'm not jumping." She shivered at the thought. Even knowing that she was on her way to imminent death, Maysilee couldn't face the thought of suicide. "Is that what you're doing?"

Haymitch shook his head, his shaggy hair flying about his sharp cheekbones. "I'm having a cigarette." He showed her a smoking paper, lifting it to his lips.

"Can I try?" She asked him.

"You?" He questioned, surprised.

"It's not like I have a good girl persona to protect here," Maysilee laughed. "And it's not like I'm going to live long enough to get addicted."

He chuckled at her dark humour. "Very true." He carefully passed her the cigarette. "Easy though; it's very strong – straight from the Hob."

Maysilee took a drag and almost immediately coughed. She handed it back quickly. She took a seat next to him, trying not to cough up anything ugly.

"Warned you," he grunted.

"You did," she agreed.

Silence reigned over them for a minute.

"Are you scared?"

"No." He answered quickly. "But you've been crying."

Maysilee glanced at him. "I'm terrified. I want to go home. I want to see my family again. I want to get married and have babies. I want to live. Yet, I know I can't. I just don't know how to make the most out of what I have left."

Haymitch nodded, understanding. "You never know who will win."

"But I know it won't be me. How could it? I'm a sheltered town girl. I have no idea what I'm doing. Even with the limited amount of training I'll get before we get thrown into the arena, I'll never have a chance." Maysilee looked down at his hand – rough and calloused. Before she could think about what she was doing, she grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. She expected him to pull away, but he didn't.

"I see."

"You could." Maysilee said suddenly. "You could win."

He snorted. "I've no more of a chance than anyone else."

"_I_ think you could do it."

"You don't know me."

"You never gave me the chance."

Haymitch's laugh was loud and bitter. "I never deserved the chance to know you."

_And I forget, I forget the movie song_

_When you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?_

His entire life Haymitch had been cursed. And now, here he was, on his way to his death and finally the prettiest girl he had ever seen – not just the prettiest, but the _best _girl – was holding his hand and lamenting that she hadn't gotten to know him while they were at home. It was the cruelest twist of fate. The only girl that had ever caught his attention – the smart, wonderful, out of his league town girl – was one of the girl's that were going to die in this year's Hunger Games.

District 12 would be hell without her.

He was glad that he was going to die too; he was never going to have to walk the streets she once had and be reminded that she would never walk there again.

"Deserved?" Maysilee echoed his word choice, her voice melodic. "What could you possibly mean by that?"

Haymitch felt the old bitterness rising in him again; the one that came whenever he thought of the clear poverty line in his District and which side of that line he was firmly placed on. He had been denied so many things, so many chances and opportunities and dreams, just because he happened to be born to the wrong set of parents. Sometimes he thought he hated people like Maysilee – people who had it all – but then he was reminded that they were both sitting on the Tribute train; they were both going to suffer the same fate as all but one of the District 12 tributes before them.

"I'm Seam," Haymitch grunted in response to her long ago question, "I'm not."

"I don't understand what that has to do with anything," she cocked her pretty head to the side and he was tempted to run his cigarette scented fingers through her hair. "I have friends from the Seam and I know I'm more deserving of their friendship than they are of mine."

Haymitch sighed. "Never mind."

"Want to explain something to me?" She asked. "I can keep up."

"You wouldn't understand," he said gruffly.

"If you say so." Maysilee echoed his sigh and curled her legs up to her chest.

Haymitch watched her and decided to take a chance; he could tell her everything. He had nothing left to lose, after all. No matter what the outcome of this was, he would only have two weeks, at most, to suffer with the consequences.

"Have you ever," he began softly, "been so frustrated with your lot in life that you wanted to burn down everything around you? You don't even know how to handle the rage but it's there – so complete and full – and you just want to be angry with everything? I feel like that all of the time at home. I've never been comfortable anywhere and I never will be.

"It's not that I'm jealous of how you town people live, not really. I just get so angry over the fact that there's so much I'll never be allowed to try, to have, simply because I'm covered in coal dust and was born in a mine."

Maysilee squeezed his hand. "Oh, Haymitch, you're so much more than a boy born in a mine."

"Right, I forgot. I'm a Tribute; I'm special."

She reached her free hand up and ran it across his cheek. He leaned into the sensation, knowing that this would probably be the closest he ever got to holding her; to telling her of how he had wanted her from afar for so long now, he had forgotten what it was like to not notice her.

"What do you want that you think you'll never be allowed to have?"

He looked at her, _really_ looked at her. Her long hair was wild, whipped about by the wind. Whatever make-up she had carefully applied in her own bedroom just this morning was long gone, tracked down her cheeks from her earlier tears. Despite her less than perfect appearance, he still felt a tug on his cynical heart strings. Hesitating, but barely, he brought his hand up to the back of her neck. He took a deep breath to steady himself and leaned in, touching his lips to hers.

She kissed him back just as fiercely.

(-.-)

It's this moment he thinks about when he remembers Maysilee. Haymitch never thinks about her in training, struggling to understand the weapons she'd never had a chance to become familiar with. He never thinks about her in the arena, when he failed her the most. He tries not to think about how she was when she was in District 12 – beautiful and _alive_ – but the phantom of her is on every street; he sees her everywhere.

He especially doesn't think about the night before they went into the arena – the very last time he kissed her lips. He doesn't think about the way she held him tightly before telling him that she was going to die and that he was going to win.

He hates that she was right.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my beta: Noble6. The song is Romeo And Juliet by The Killers.**

**~TLL~**


	4. Cato & Clove

_Come up on different streets, they both were streets of shame_

_Both dirty, both mean, yes and the dream was just the same_

"Do you still think I'm a pitiful opponent?" Cato growled to the boy – four years his elder – who was now pinned beneath him.

The boy grunted, tapping out of the wrestling match and scrambling to his feet. "Perhaps I underestimated you," he admitted.

Cato flexed, smirking. "I'm the most fearsome opponent in District 2. Don't you dare forget that."

The boy, who was toweling off his sweaty forehead snorted. "You are a challenge, Cato, and you are fearsome. However, I wouldn't go as far as to call you the most fearsome."

Cato's ego reared its ugly head. "Oh?" He said casually. "Who is it you think could defeat me?"

"Don't ask that – you'll only go and get yourself into a fight that you won't be able to win."

Cato clenched his hands into fists. "I demand you take me to this man you say could defeat me."

The boy gave a wicked grin. "If you insist, Cato; but you won't be able to handle it."

"I can handle anything!" He boasted.

The boy shrugged. He looped the towel around his neck and shoulders and gestured for Cato to follow. Cato did so quickly, curiosity burning within him – he had never heard of a fighter in District 2 that could match his skill level, which really was saying something considering the abundance of fighters in District 2. Cato followed the boy down one of the side streets of the District. He had never been down this way; it was considered one of the lower class streets. He glanced around him, noting all of the children's faces – dirty, angry, and scarred.

The boy pulled Cato in an abandoned warehouse near the end of the street. It had been made into a makeshift training center; somewhere for Tribute hopefuls to go before they were old enough to transfer to the more official, but no less illegal, training houses overseen by the past District 2 Victors.

Cato was suspicious of this place. Potential Tributes were always recruited at age fourteen. How young could this fighter be? And if he were that young, how good could he be expected to be? At least Cato now understood why he had never heard of this apparently exemplary fighter – at under fourteen, he would be too young to register on anyone's radar.

"What's this one's age?" Cato whispered, needing to know. He was a fifteen year old aspiring Career Tribute; he wasn't about to battle a prepubescent child.

"Fourteen next month." The boy grinned spitefully. "Let me introduce you to Clove."

He shouted the name, attracting the attention of the roughly two dozen people who were gathered in the arena. Cato was quick to scan the young faces. All of the children there were skinny; small. Not a single one of them looked like they could ever be a threat. There was a movement at the back of the crowd; a parting of bodies. Cato straightened, nearly anticipating a monstrous child; someone built for cracking skulls.

Instead, a slight girl sauntered forward, a long handled blade clenched in one hand.

"Yes?" She asked, her soft voice telling of innocence.

Cato was torn between wanting to laugh at the angelic like image the little girl (how could she be almost fourteen?) and wanting to punch the boy for bringing him here – he wasn't one to waste his days being dragged around the District just to be mocked.

Before Cato could settle on a plan of action, the boy spoke.

"Hello, Clove. Cato here wanted to meet you."

The girl – Clove – approached Cato. He looked down at her, his face twisted into a sneer.

"I thought you said you knew someone who could best me," Cato growled at the boy. "This is just a girl!"

Before Cato realized what was happening, he was on his back, staring up at the far off ceiling of the warehouse. The girl was straddling him – he knew he could easily throw her meager weight off of him, but the knife at his throat made him pause. He could feel the sharp, brutal edge of the blade and, for a moment, wondered if she would really use it on him. She leaned toward his face – he could feel her breath across his features – and smiled; it was both wicked and intoxicating.

"Hello, Cato. I'm Clove – not 'just a girl'." She added more pressure to the knife. "Don't test me; I never miss."

Cato grunted and quickly reached up to seize her ribs. Her picked her up – even from his disadvantage position – and rolled her away from his body. He quickly sprang to his feet but Clove was already up, having the weight and speed advantage. Her blade was held loosely in one hand, ready to throw or be discarded at her will. Cato was poised to attack before he realized that she wasn't preparing to fight him again – she was laughing at him.

He stood up straight, scowling at her. "What's so funny?"

Clove winked at him. "Oh, nothing; you wouldn't get the joke anyway." She spun the knife, sliding it into a holster on her hip. "Goodbye," she said to her friends in the crowd.

Cato stared at her as she approached him again. She hooked her hand through his elbow, hanging onto his arm. With no effort at all, she tugged him along behind her. Cato willingly followed. She was too enigmatic, too _much_ for him to simply ignore. It didn't matter where she was leading him – she could be preparing to thrust that knife through his heart for all he knew – but he wanted to follow. It didn't matter that he had never met her before; that he didn't know anything about her other than her considerable skill or her name. For the first time in his life, Cato felt as though he had met someone who could understand him – someone who was filled with the same drive, the same blood thirst that had plagued him all his life. For the first time, Cato had Clove.

_And I dream your dream for you and now your dream is real_

_How can you look at me as if I was just another one of your deals?_

"The 74th Annual Hunger Games," Clove laughed – it was still as high pitched as it had been when Cato had first met her nearly four years previous. "Who ever thought we would be here?"

Cato shrugged. No one; everyone. It had been obvious that Cato and Clove were the Careers to choose; were the two to bet on. Cato had known he would walk into the arena, bring glory to District 2 and then sit at his home and watch Clove do the same thing a year later. He had never expected her to be in _his_ Hunger Games. She was a full year younger than him. She was only seventeen; every other Career was eighteen. It was the way things went. Except for this time, because the Mentors had seen how well Cato and Clove worked together. They knew that, by putting the duo in the same arena, there was no way that District 2 wouldn't win this year.

Cato hated them for it; hated them for everything. He'd had a plan for his life and they were fucking with it. Now that he knew there would be no Clove waiting for him in District 2 – now that he knew, when it came down to it, he was expected to kill her in the final two and return home – he didn't know if he could return. He didn't know if he could win, achieve the Victor status he and his family had been lusting over his entire life, knowing what he would lose in the process.

"Cato?" Clove asked, large eyes blinking at him. She was no longer the innocent almost fourteen-year-old he had first encountered. She wore her insanity, her blood thirst, with pride now.

"Yes, Clove?"

"Which one of us do you think will die first?"

Cato's stomach clenched. He didn't want to be here – in his room in the training center, the Hunger Games closer than they had ever been – talking of death. He didn't let her see this. Instead he smirked. "You, obviously. You're just a girl."

Clove sneered at him, reaching for the knife she usually kept at her belt – one he was regularly threatened with. She scowled when she remembered that it had been taken away from her when she had volunteered: Tributes were not allowed their own weapons.

"You're just a boy," she countered. "And that's an awfully stupid thing to be."

"Aww, c'mon," Cato scoffed. "That's the best you could do?"

Clove picked up a boot he had discarded earlier and threw it at his head. There was no malice to the gesture and so he caught the boot easily, fending off her weak attack. He dropped the boot back to the ground and sprung at Clove. He caught her around the waist and completely by surprise. She let out a shriek and immediately lashed out her legs, trying to catch him in the groin. He flipped her over, pinned her to the carpeted floor and straddled her hips.

"This feels familiar," he observed wryly.

She glared at him. "Actually," she corrected, "it went more like this."

Cato allowed her to roll him onto his back. She planted a leg firmly on either side, hands resting on the upper portion of his chest.

"This feels familiar," Cato repeated, but the tone was softer.

"And then I think I did this," Clove mused. She leaned forward; he could feel her breath.

Cato felt his hands rising, coming to rest on her ribs. He could feel her breathe now too. Her hair – so much shorter than it had been in her youth – came to frame her face. Her lips twisted into a smile.

"What happened next?" Cato asked, knowing he remembered their first meeting just as well, if not better, than she did.

"Then I think I introduced myself and threatened you," Clove laughed. "But I don't have a weapon on me at the moment."

Cato rolled his eyes. "I think you're dangerous enough to be classified as a weapon."

Clove preened at his words. "Thanks for the compliment."

They were both silent for a moment, lost in the harmony of being this close to one another.

"Since you have no weapon," Cato began hoarsely, "what do we do this time?"

"Hmmm," Clove hummed. "I guess some improvisation must be done."

Cato moved his palms smoothly from her sides around to her shoulder blades. He could feel the sharp points of her bones as she moved, hunching even closer to him. He drew in a long breath, knowing what was coming next. He put pressure on her back, trying to speed up the moment. He was tired of dancing around Clove, whether that was emotionally (could this all be in his head or did she feel it too?) or literally – weapons in hand and muscles poised to best the other. He dug his nails into her back, bringing her straight to him.

This was the first time he had ever tasted her lips – the lips that had sworn, crooned, laughed, threatened, and sarcastically complimented him – and they were beautiful. She fell against him, stealing any breath that he may have held. He tightened his arms around her, not caring that with his considerable strength he may injure her. She clawed back at him just as hungrily.

It was in that moment that Cato knew he would not be able to return to District 2 without her. He would push the both of them into the final two – District 2 _must_ have a Victor after all – but it would be her that returned. He didn't care how many he would have to slaughter in this quest. Clove would go home and he wouldn't have to be faced with the impossible choice of killing her or him – the one that their Mentors had always talked about, never knowing that it would never come down to a choice between him and her; he would always pick himself to die. He didn't care that he was the crowd favourite – he could kill all of the Tributes (was excited for the opportunity, in fact) but he could never kill Clove: she wasn't like the other Tributes. She deserved to go home, even if he couldn't go home with her. He didn't mind the thought that he would die in the process; he would never have to live without Clove.

It wasn't a life he would have ever wanted.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my beta: Noble6. The song is Romeo And Juliet by The Killers.**

**~TLL~**


	5. Peeta & Katniss

_Well, you can fall for chains of silver, you can fall for chains of gold_

_You can fall for pretty strangers and the promises they hold_

I loved Katniss Everdeen. I loved her before I even fully knew who she was. I simply loved her dark hair, the way her laugh sounded – rare though it was that she laughed – and I loved the way she loved; she loved her sister and her father, she loved the woods, and she loved hunting. I loved everything about her. And, when I got to know her more, I began to love her more.

The Hunger Games arena is, hands down, the worst place to be in love. It is, especially, the worst place to be with someone you love.

When she had volunteered for her sister, I hadn't been surprised. Katniss loved Prim more than everything – whenever Prim was near her, a tender love bloomed in her eyes. (I was, admittedly, jealous every time I saw it – I wanted Katniss to look at me with love in her eyes.) My heart was aching for Katniss, my beautiful Katniss, and I just wanted to see her home again. She would come home: she was a true warrior – beautiful and deadly. Besides, I knew that _nothing_ would keep her from coming home to Prim.

The last thing I expected from that day was to be up on the stage with her. My name was only in that bowl once – just like Prim's had been. Yet, there I was. I was shaking the hand of the most beautiful girl in the world while she was glaring flatly at me. I didn't blame her: I was only competition. I was only in the way of her getting back home. Little did she know that I was not competition to her. I would end my own life in those games so that she could come home.

I knew that I was going to have to. There was only one winner.

I peeked over at Katniss. Her skin was taunt, especially around her eyes. I could see how she was fighting not to cry and I hoped that she wouldn't. I didn't want to see her cry.

But Katniss was strong. Strength was one of the many things I admired about her. I didn't count on that strength being one of the things to keep us apart. In District 12, there was the divide of the Seam and the Town – I was clearly on one side while she was clearly on the other. Here, there was her complete unwillingness to show any kindness to anyone that was separating us. I know I shouldn't have expected anything else – the Katniss I had witnessed with her sister was not the Katniss she presented to everyone else – but I didn't expect her to be so frozen. I couldn't bring myself to blame her. I wouldn't want to get comfortable with people I was expecting to kill either.

I knew that she was readying herself for the kill. My beautiful warrior: she was going home to Prim, come hell or high water.

And it was hell.

I did everything I could to keep her safe. During our time together for training – brief though it was – I had learned the nuances of her. She would never willingly give something of herself away, of course, but it was easy to read between the lines of what she said and it was easy to see how she would maneuver in the arena. It was because of this that I knew how she would act; I knew where she would be. That meant I knew how to protect her and keep her safe. It meant joining up with the Careers, which I absolutely detested. They were a grotesque group of killing machines with no underlying emotions that I could spot. But I put up with them for as long as I could because I knew that's what would benefit her the most. This was how I could help her.

I expected Cato's sword to be the death of me. After I pulled myself onto that river bank and hid myself from him, I closed my eyes and let myself drift away. I was determined to greet death as an old friend – I had, after all, gotten my wish. I was going to die as myself; this arena had not altered me beyond the point of recognition. Even thinking that brought me back to that night on the roof – the night that I had felt closer to Katniss than I ever had before.

That night on the roof felt like the beginning of our souls connecting. It could not even compare to the night of the Tribute parade when she had grabbed my hand. That conversation felt as though it could be the beginning of everything – but with my death imminent, there was no room left for _everything_.

Still, lying in the riverbank, it was beautiful to think of _everything_. I thought I could feel her hand in my hand – warm and strong, both of us hanging on like it would be the end of the world if we dared to let go. I thought of her voice – rough and silky all at once. I imagined her calling out my name. I imagined what it would be like if she loved me too.

(Allow a dying man his fantasies, would you?)

I was vaguely aware of the rule change. My mind was foggy with pain; I was confused between what reality was and what was imaginary. Time had no meaning to me anymore. I was simply aware that the end was near and I was increasingly becoming okay with that.

But before I could die, Katniss appeared. And she was not a figment of my imagination. She was real.

It was real.

_You promised me everything, you promised me thick and thin_

_Now you just say, "Oh, Romeo, yeah, you know_

_I used to have a scene with him"_

But then it wasn't real anymore.

All that we had built in the arena – every kiss and every caress; every lie that she had offered and I had bought into – was just built for the arena. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. When I had confessed my love for her on stage during the interviews, she hadn't responded well. I should have been more suspicious of her, I guess, but I didn't _want_ to be suspicious of Katniss.

I had loved her for so long. And when we were together, I could feel how that love could be real; could consume us both in the most wonderful ways. I didn't think the idea of us together was ludicrous, as she had treated the idea. I thought that she could feel all that could be between us like I could. I thought the possibilities were strong and inescapable. I was a hopeless fool – a fool in love, nonetheless.

I can't hold a grudge against her. I want to, don't get me wrong. I _am_ angry; I _am_ upset that she played me for a fool. Despite my negative feelings about what happened, Katniss still saved my life. I was expecting to die in the arena and I would have, had it not been for her careful nursing. I am alive because of Katniss. And even if she had an ulterior motive for doing it, she had still kissed me; she had still fallen asleep cradled in my arms; I had still taken care of her as she had taken care of me.

And despite the fact that I knew it was all for the games, that it was just a survival ploy that she and Haymitch had cooked up behind my back (though I couldn't be angry at the two of them for scheming; Haymitch and I had schemed behind her back before the Tribute interviews), there was something genuine in the conversations that had taken place. I had seen warmth in her eyes when she had looked at me – she _had_ to care about me.

I knew she wasn't in love with me – her extended silence and revelation that she had been pretending the entire time told me that much – but I didn't believe that she didn't feel anything for me. There was tenderness in her touch when her fingers brushed against me. There was softness in her eyes when she looked at me. I now, more than ever, firmly believed that if she gave us a chance – if she weren't so afraid of loving another human being – we could be amazing.

I was terrified that I wouldn't get the chance. We hadn't spoken in so long: I was hurt and angry; Katniss was _always_ angry. I didn't know how to bridge that gap between us. I also didn't know if I would be able to look at her with clarity. I would be feeling her kisses but also the hurt when she had broken my heart. Everything in me was screaming to be closer to her again – I was an addict and she, my addiction. I knew that neither of us had gotten over what had happened in the arena (truthfully, I don't think it's something that anyone ever gets over) but I desperately wanted us to heal together, rather than apart.

We were apart, though. I stayed in my house in the Victor's Village with Katniss and Haymitch only a few houses away. I painted pictures – bloody, violent images of those damned games; I guess I thought if they were on the canvas, they wouldn't be in my head. And I peeked out the window and watched her. I felt as though I was a child again, peeking out the bakery windows hoping that, by chance, I would see the pretty Seam girl with the voice of an angel.

Then off she would go, usually every morning in the soft light of dawn, heading off into the woods. I'd watch her disappear down the road and wonder how she'd react if I stumbled after her and reached for her again. I wondered what she would do if I asked to talk to her; if I simply asked how she was doing. Something told me that I would be brushed off and forgotten.

In my mind, our time in the arena together – outside of the horror and violence of unnecessary, young death – had cemented us in a bond that couldn't be replaced or brushed away. But my mind worked so much differently than hers. To her, I was just a boy – albeit one she had survived hell with. But the person you survive hell with is not, necessarily, the person you want to live day to day with. Despite knowing that she probably didn't think of me at all – it's a strange world where I'm important enough to be on the mind of Katniss Everdeen – I still thought of her. Despite knowing that I probably didn't matter to her at all, she still mattered to me.

If she wanted to push the arena and all that happened there out of her mind, I couldn't stop her. If she wanted to say and believe that it was all for the games, I couldn't stop her. I knew Katniss; the fact that she was a force of nature was yet another thing that made me admire her so much. If she wanted to think something, if she wanted to do something, she would think it and she would do it. No one could stop her.

But I wished I could. I wished that I wasn't someone she could brush away. I wished that all that I had imagined seeing in her – the gentle way she handled me; the way her lips moved against mine – were how I saw them. It wasn't for the games, not for me. For me, that was real. For me, that was my dreams coming true.

I wished it were the same for her: dream-worthy and real.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my beta: Noble6. The song is Romeo And Juliet by The Killers.**

**~TLL~**


	6. Thresh & Rue

_Juliet, when we made love, you used to cry_

_You said, "I love you like the stars above, I love you till I die"_

"Do you ever think about what could have been?" Rue trilled.

I looked down at her – my tiny little beautiful District partner; my fellow tribute. She looked back at me – her light brown eyes soft and warm. I shrugged. There wasn't a lot in my life that could have branched off in a different direction than it had.

"No, really," she insisted, running a hand through her dark curls. "Do you think about how different your life could be sometimes?"

I fiddled with the fabric on the chair in the corner of the room the Capitol had provided me with. I couldn't look her in the eye anymore. I didn't know where she was going with this, but I didn't think I wanted to. I already knew that she was a dreamy child – the exact opposite of me. I was firmly planted in this life; I couldn't change the past, the present, or the future. I did not need to dwell.

I knew that she was waiting for an answer, but all I could do was shake my head. _No_, I didn't think about how different my life could be; I didn't think about what could have been.

"I do," Rue admitted. "I think about it all the time."

She was a twelve year old little girl. What could she possibly be thinking about? I lifted my eyes to her again but this time she was not looking back. She was sitting cross legged on my Capitol bed, cradling one of the overly stuffed pillows in her thin arms. She was staring blankly down at her bare feet -scrubbed clean of any memory of District 11.

"What do you think about?" I managed in a whisper. My voice was still deep and continued to thrum throughout the room I constantly felt too big for.

"I think about Reaping Day," Rue admitted. "I think about my name being pulled out of the ball. I think about what would happen if a different name had been chosen – if I had to watch someone else die as a Tribute rather than sitting here in the Capitol."

I cleared my throat, trying to think of any words that would comfort her. Unfortunately, I had no words. I never had words. I didn't know how to dash away her sorrowful expression but I knew that I wanted to. I desperately wanted to.

"And?" I prompted.

"And I want to be _home_. I want to be with my parents and my siblings. I want to be in District 11 and wake up earlier than dawn and go to the Orchards." I could see unshed tears brimming in her large eyes; her slight frame began to tremble. "I want to go home, Thresh."

I could feel emotions beginning to well through my veins. That poor little girl – none of the Tributes, even the cruelest of the Careers, deserved this but especially Rue. She was so little; so young. What chance did she have against the other Tributes – most of them bigger, stronger, and deadlier with their weapons of choice. I had never seen Rue even get annoyed with someone – I could not imagine her holding a weapon, let alone using one.

"Win," I said, surprised by the strength in my tone. "Win and go home."

Her eyes snapped to my face. "I couldn't win. I'm a baby standing next to them."

I couldn't deny this truth. "You're smarter."

"Evasion isn't winning." She smiled sadly, "I'm smart enough to know that I'm never going to see District 11 again."

Her voice got fainter, eventually fading away to nothing. Her sobs took over her small body; she curled around my pillow – bawling and trembling. I watched her for a moment; her tears piercing my heart. I heaved myself out of the uncomfortable Capitol chair, making my way to her side. I paused a moment, unsure of how to handle the situation. I didn't know how comfortable she was with me (we had never talked in District 11; we were friendly with one another but in normal circumstances, we may never have spoken) but we needed each other in this place. We were the last links to home, and, I'll admit it, I cared for her. She was a beautiful, passionate, friendly child and she had, in the past few days, quickly become dear to my heart.

I sat down on the edge of the mattress and reached for her. Rue collapsed into my arms quickly; her tiny arms twining around my neck, her breath coming hot and quick on my shoulder. I rubbed her back, like my grandmother had done when I was small, and hoped that it comforted her like it had once comforted me. For a long few minutes, there was nothing but the sound of her crying filling the room and the feel of her breathing under my palm. I touched her dark curls and listened to her begin to quiet.

It took another few moments for her to ask, "Do you think you'll win?"

"No," the truth fell from my lips.

"You're strong," Rue pointed out, placing a dainty hand on my bicep.

"Strength alone won't make someone win."

"I think Katniss will win; the District 12 girl," Rue confided.

"You never know," I said.

Silence reigned. I continued to hold her.

"Thresh?"

"Yes, Rue?"

"Where do you think we go when we die?" Rue curled into me, looking much younger than 12 short years.

"My grandmother always told me that we went to the stars so we could watch over the ones we loved."

"That's a beautiful thought," Rue murmured.

I nodded.

"Thresh?"

"Yes, Rue?"

"Do you think, if we both die in the arena, we'll be in heaven together?"

I looked down at her angelic face. "I think so; if you want me to be in your heaven."

Rue didn't say anything else. She snuggled her face deep into my chest and that was the last time we ever spoke.

_There's a place for us, you know the movie song_

_When you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?_

Heaven is beautiful. At least, my heaven was beautiful but I assume all of heaven was beautiful to each occupant in its own way. Yet, my heaven was lonely. I had all I could ever want – scenery; food; peace. There was still something missing – little Rue; my District partner, cruelly ripped from life too early like so many other past Tributes.

I often thought about our last conversation. I wondered if she would ever want me to be in her heaven with her. I wondered what life would be like if my name had never been pulled out of that tribute bowl. I would sit, let the wind wash over me, and for the first time in my existence, I would let myself wonder what I could have been, had I not been myself.

Years passed like this. I wasted my days in my beautiful heaven with nothing but my own company. Until one day. One day I was under my tree – my beautiful tree that bloomed bright with any type of fruit I may desire – and was struck with an odd feeling – a new feeling. It was something I had not felt since entering the arena, since coming to heaven. I felt _anxious_. I felt jittery to the pits of my stomach. The feeling thrust me to my feet and pushed me to continuing moving afterward.

I was at the edge of my heaven. I had never visited the outskirts. Though I knew that this was my heaven and I was able to go wherever I wished, the thought of going to the outskirts depressed me, as depressed as one person could get in heaven. I would reach the outskirts of my heaven but I would not be able to go any further. I had my slice of paradise; I was not allowed to share in anyone else's, though there were people I would love to visit. I would see my parents again; I would go to Rue's side.

The edge of my heaven began to quiver and change. Usually the outskirts of heaven reflected the inside – it was like living in a mirrored bubble. I stared as the usually solid boundary began to distort – a dark opening began to appear. I found myself leaning away, unsure of what would be coming through the opening. While I was not afraid, I was still cautious. The last time I'd had contact with anything – human or creature – it had been against the angry District 1 boy in the arena field.

But what came out of the hole, and into my heaven, was certainly not the District 1 boy – it was certainly not any threat at all. Into my heaven strode Rue. But not Rue. She was not the scared child I had held that last night in the Capitol. She was not the youthful portrait painted against the arena sky. She was elegant; aged into the years she was denied in life. I couldn't take my eyes off of her.

I had to wonder if I was older too; if, in heaven, I had also been aging, living out my lifespan like I was supposed to.

I was distracted as her eyes lit upon me – her dark eyes began to twinkle with light.

"Thresh!" She cried, and then she was throwing her arms around me.

I didn't do anything but hold her back. Though older by several years, she was still small compared to me – as most people in my District were. Her curls were bouncing around my face and I buried my face into the depths of them. I breathed in her scent – she still smelled the orchards of District 11; sweet, innocent, and warm.

"I missed you," Rue admitted, bringing a dark hand up to my darker face.

I, who hadn't spoken much in life and hadn't uttered a single word since arriving in heaven, couldn't say anything back to her. I brought my own hand up to lay against hers – warm and real on my skin. It was almost as though she were alive. Except, as my thumb brushed against the underside of her wrist, there was no hummingbird pulse; there was no blood dancing through her veins.

For a single moment, I mourned her death all over again.

"Did it hurt?" I croaked.

Her eyes flashed sadly. "Yes, but Katniss was there. She made it better." Rue let our hands drop but she kept a firm hold of me, something that I was glad for. "Thank you for sparing her."

"I'm sorry I didn't save you."

"I wasn't your burden to bear." Rue shook her head. "And I've come to terms with the fact that I wasn't supposed to make it out of that arena."

Her acceptance made me sad. I supposed, though, that I carried the same kind of acceptance and it was much better to be all right with it than to be angry over something that had long since passed; something that none of us could change, no matter how much we wished, sometimes, that we could.

"Do you remember," Rue began, peeking up at me from under her dark eyelashes, "what we talked about the night before going into the arena?"

I nodded solemnly. Every conversation I'd had with her in that short period of time was committed to my memory. I couldn't have forgotten a single thing about Rue if I had tried. She was imprinted on me – a piece of me.

She smiled and I was struck, once again, by the overwhelming brilliance that was Rue. "I came here to ask if you wanted to come to my heaven with me?"

I nodded again. My tongue seemed to swell making it impossible for me to utter any words. Happiness seemed to radiate from Rue at my agreement; I hoped that my answer made her as happy as her offer had made me. I allowed her to lead me through the hole, into heaven. I was not upset at leaving my little piece of the world behind; I always belonged with her.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my beta: Noble6. The song is **_**Romeo And Juliet **_**by**_** The Killers.**_

**~TLL~**


	7. Finnick & Annie

_I can't do the talk like the talk on the TV_

_And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to be_

Finnick hated the Capitol. He hated what they wanted from him there – the mere thought of it made him sick to his stomach. He hated their groping hands and glamorous streets.

Finnick loved coming home. He loved the smell of the ocean and the welcoming cries of his neighbours as they called his name in a friendly way, not a demanding one. He loved the peace he found in his childhood bed and he loved the peace he found with _her_.

If there was one person Finnick never would have thought he would fall in love with, it would be her. But there she was; in love with him as he fell in love with her as return.

It was she that consumed his thoughts on the Capitol train. He was speeding toward District 4 – having been granted a record three weeks of grace before there was someone that wanted something else from him. And when the Capitol train ground to a halt, and he was in his home, it was she that was waiting for him.

Somehow, every time he left and returned, she grew more beautiful. Though she had never been plain – had always had something beautiful and infectious about her – every time he came back to her, he found that she had grown more stunning in his absence.

He stepped off the train, the salty air immediately blowing away the thick perfumes the Capitol constantly sprayed on him, and she came running. She ran straight into his arms, and for once he wasn't dreaming it. For once, she was there – solid and real and _in his arms_. He picked her up and ran his lips along her jawline before finding her lips.

"I missed you," he murmured into her ear, gently replacing her feet to the ground.

She looked up at him with wide, tender eyes. As softly as she could, she ran her hand along the lines of his face, the crinkles of his eyes, and the slope of his nose. She studied him for a long moment – the ocean breeze whipping around them and the sun beating down on their shoulders – and then she burst into tears.

"No, no," Finnick breathed. He pulled her close to his body again, rocking back and forth in an attempt to soothe her. "You don't have to cry."

But she did. She was folded into his arms and crying.

Finnick smoothed his hand along her hair, thinking about what would help her calm down. There are many things that she liked when she was upset and he wondered which one would help her now.

He bent his lips to her ear. "Why are you so sad?"

"Because," she hiccupped, her voice melodious, "_you're_ sad."

"But I'm not," Finnick assured her. "I'm so happy to be back with you."

Her fingers fluttered anxiously, tapping a scattered beat against his spine. "_But_, but … you were sad _there_."

"But I'm not there anymore, am I?"

She shook her head against his chest.

"Walk down the beach with me?" Finnick asked.

He slipped her hand into hers and together they walked down to the beach. For a while, they walked in silence, feeling the sand between their toes and listening to the waves lap upon the beach. Finnick liked that they didn't always have to be talking; they didn't have to fill up the silences with meaningless chatter. He liked that they could walk and enjoy the feeling of holding hands and knowing that they were next to one another.

He liked that this was enough.

Eventually, as they began to circle back toward the village, Finnick broke the silence.

"What did you do while I was away?"

She stayed silent for a long time, dreamy gaze focused on the horizon.

"I saw you on the television," she admitted quietly, as though it were a sinful thing.

"Did I look handsome?" Finnick joked, wrapping a strong arm around her waist so that he could bring her closer.

She shook her head. "You look handsome _here_. You look like you here. You don't look like you there."

"Being next to you makes me handsome." He kissed her temple.

She picked at the fabric of her loose skirt before continuing. "They mentioned that you had a Capitol romance."

Finnick hated that she sounded insecure. He didn't want her to doubt him. He wanted her to believe wholeheartedly in him, in _them._

"There's no Capitol romance." His face twisted bitterly.

"I know." She stopped them on the beach, placing a strong hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "I know what they do to you there." She hesitated. "But . . . they spin your life to look so good there and I . . . wish you were really that happy."

"Oh, but I am. You make me happier than any fairytale spin the Capitol puts on stories. I know that this isn't the ideal situation for either of us, but my heart is yours to do what you wish with it. I will always love _you_. I will always close my eyes and see _you_. You are a part of me – a beautiful, wondrous part that I can't live without.

"If you were going to wish anything, my dear, you should be wishing that I were actually like they presented me in the Capitol. If I were truly that beautiful, that gifted, that good, I could deserve you. I'm not anything that I'm supposed to be – both for their expectations and to be good enough for you. I wish I could deliver perfect lines like the Capitol teams taught me to; I wish I could be a prince for you."

She met his eyes. "You _are_ my prince."

_I can't do everything but I'd do anything for you_

_Can't do anything except be in love with you_

Annie curled her knees up to her chest, sitting in the corner of her bed.

He is stretched out to his full height, eyes closed and shaped mouth forming an 'O' as he sleeps. Softly, she reaches out and touches the gold of his hair, trailing her fingers across his shoulder blades. He shifted under her touch, curling himself closer to her, but didn't wake.

Annie watched him, a tenderness springing to her eyes. She'd never felt this way for anybody – had never expected to feel this way for anybody. And now she found herself caught in a whirlwind with Panem's coveted sweetheart.

And she would never change a thing about it.

No, she thinks, that's not true. There are many things that Annie would change if she had a chance. She would save him from the Capitol's domineering thumb. When he had come home, he had told her he wished he were a prince for her, but Annie didn't need a prince. Annie had him. But he needed a brave princess.

Annie knew she would never be a princess.

She was a broken doll – with cracks and scars running rampant through her brain. She saw things that weren't there and heard things that didn't really have sound. She was mad – they all said it and she could hardly deny it.

But Annie knew he wasn't whole either. While he didn't wear his crazy on his sleeve – he had never broken down screaming in the market – he had shown her the truth of him. He had trusted her with his unstable head and unstable heart.

She refused to let him down.

Annie finished walking her fingers down his arm, coming to rest at the very tips of his fingers. She was about to begin her journey anew – perhaps travel down his spine and find herself at the backs of his calves – when she glanced up at his face to find him looking back at her.

Warmth bloomed in the pit of her stomach.

"Hi," she squeaked, voice rough with exhaustion.

"Hi," he returned, his voice heavy with sleep. "Why are you up?" He inquired, lifting himself up onto one elbow so that he could reach for her.

Annie slipped into his grip willingly, aware that at 2 o'clock tomorrow afternoon the Capitol train would come steaming into District 4 and she would have to give him to _them_.

"You're pretty when you sleep."

"You're pretty all the time."

"I love you."

"I love you more."

"That's not possible."

"Oh, but it is."

Annie doesn't comment.

"I love you," she repeats. "I'll love you always."

"Always and forever."

"Eternity and after," she completed, twining her fingers through his mop of hair. She liked it like this – thick and messy, and knows that's how he prefers it too. She hated it when they cut it off to _'show off his cheekbones'._

"Even after that," he said, adding a new line. "There will never come a time when I don't love you."

"Ever?"

"Ever, ever, ever." He assured her. "I'm yours until the day I die and all of the days after that."

Annie's hands, which had come to rest delicately on his shoulder blades, clench suddenly. Her veins feel as though her blood have become a whirlpool – spinning and collecting her insides. A vortex has been opened inside of her and her emotions began to unravel, fraying and falling apart.

"What?" He gasped, aware of the change within her.

"You're not going to die!" Annie screeched, voice harsh with panic.

"No, of course not," he soothed, running his hands along the length of her body. She took comfort from the feeling – he is solid and _here_. Not dead; never dead. He would never die and leave her alone. He loves her too much for him to leave and she loves him too much to let him go.

"Don't say it," she pleaded.

"Never again," he swore. "I'm healthy. I'm alive. I'm going to stay that way."

"Yes," Annie repeated. "You're going to stay that way."

He lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a strong kiss to the palm. He looked to her with a question in his eyes, and Annie pulled him close, pressing her lips to his and answering his question.

He always asked before he made love to her – whether it was with words or the kiss to her palm; his asking gesture. He'd had enough of things being taken from the two of them. She'd had enough of things being taken from the two of them.

He was over her; he was inside of her; he was all around her.

Annie loved moments like this. These were the moments when she couldn't tell where she began and he ended; where she ended and he began. There were one person; one body; one heart. She loved the feeling of him being everywhere; such a part of her that it didn't matter that he was his own being.

When they were together she was whole. She wasn't completely herself – couldn't be completely herself – when he was missing. He had saved her in every way that she had needed. She had been drowning at sea – almost literally. Her mind had been trapped in those last few days in the arena when her partner had been murdered and they had been flooding. She had been swimming, forever swimming and being overwhelmed by the water that was slowly dragging her away from everything when there he had come.

He had been a safe place; her island in the middle of the ocean. He had understood her before she had understood herself.

And when he had shown her all of the sides of him – even the sides that he was ashamed of; the sides of him that plagued him and kept him up at night – she had loved him more than ever before.

And from then on it had been her and him. She finally had someone to love; someone who loved her. And come hell or high water, she would love him forever.

Loving him was the only thing she could do right.

**Thanks to my fantastic beta: Noble6. I don't own anything recognizable. The song is **_**Romeo And Juliet**_** by **_**The Killers.**_

**~TLL~**


	8. The Past & Johanna

_And all I do is miss you and the way we used to be_

_All I do is keep the beat, the bad company_

Johanna closes her eyes as her prep team sweeps their make-up brushes across her face – accenting this, erasing that, putting ridiculous amounts of colour everywhere. She tries not to think about her appearance. She tries not to think about why they're dressing her up and where she has to go after this.

She tries not to think about the fact that the Capitol owns her. Despicable President Snow with his paternal voice and snake eyes _owns_ her. She tries not to think about how she will never be free, though all of it's true.

Her prep team guides her to her feet. She stands stiffly on the cold floor, not opening her eyes as the prep team maneuvers her limbs. They dress her in skimpy, lacy underwear – pieces made of so little fabric they could hardly be called garments. Despite the fact that her body was nearly completely bared, she felt no shame. Anyone who was anyone in the Capitol high life had already seen her body; had already run their grubby hands across her skin and told her that she belonged to them.

She thought of a time long gone, before the Capitol knew her name, before they called her Tribute and threw her in an arena, before she walked out of that same arena and they called her Victor. She thought of District 7 in all its simplicity, back when she had been innocent. She thought back to other hands that had scorched their way across her body, had imprinted their touch upon her forevermore. She thought of how she had craved those hands, how she had welcomed them on her.

She hadn't craved a touch since; hadn't welcomed one.

With the District 7 hands, the innocent hands that had wanted her as much as she had wanted him, she had given love but love had been given back to her. Here in the Capitol, love didn't exist. The Capitol only wanted to _take_ from her. Take and take until there was nothing left of the once triumphant Victor; of the scared little girl who had made her way to the Tribute stage on Reaping day.

She thought of being that little girl and searching the crowd's eyes for family, for friends, for a lover.

"Johanna," her prep team is pulling on her arms, forcing her out of her reverie. "Your first appointment is in fifteen minutes, at nine o'clock. It's a large party; a group gathering – you know the type."

_Appointment_. It all sounded so damn clinical.

"And then you have another at eleven but it's a couple, so you need to come back here to see us so we can dress you properly."

_Why? _Johanna snorted inside of her head. _We all know I'll be naked and at their mercy by the end of the evening._

But she didn't say anything. She never did. Though she burned to fight back – hurt the Capitol, hurt President Snow the way they hurt her – she knew that she couldn't. She didn't have the means to fight back; what was one small girl going to do against the might of Capitol? Nothing. Even if she ran (not that she had the means to run either) where would she go? The Capitol clothed her, the Capitol fed her, the Capitol made sure she had no access to anything that would help her run.

And it's not like she has a home to go back to anymore.

Everyone she ever cared about has burned. Her childhood home has burned. Her life, before the Capitol laid their sick, twisted eyes on her has burned. She couldn't return to District 7 – walking through those forgotten streets with their brutal memories would kill her; she saw the visions of fire and hell flicker behind her eyelids every time she closed them, she couldn't revisit the place of occurrence.

"Johanna, did you hear us?"

"Yes," she breathes. "I heard you."

She couldn't tune them out, even if she tried. Oh, and believe her, she has _tried_. She has tried all she can to suffocate the nasally Capitol voices that plague her every thought and arrange her every movement. She cannot breathe without having it scheduled in someone's notebook somewhere.

"Would you like us to escort you down to the limo?" The prep team offered.

Johanna declined. Even if it was just to teeter down some stairs on her ridiculously high heels, a moment alone was a moment alone. She waved goodbye, assuring them that she would return to meet them on time (because, really, did she have a choice? She was damned if she did and damned if she didn't. She might as well go along for the ride), and wobbled out the door.

The limo driver – her regular one, the one who didn't touch her and seemed to look right through her no matter what outfit she was wearing – opened the door so that she could slide inside. She liked him. She liked the fact that she could parade around in front of him completely nude (had done so, in fact) and he wouldn't even stare at her body. After so long of having people take something from her, even if it was with something as small as their lingering gaze, it was refreshing to have someone not even acknowledge her.

She arrived at her destination too quickly. It was the uptown apartment of a wealthy couple – one who often called on the Capitol prostitution service to supply their parties with entertainment. She waited until the driver opened her door and flounced out. She was escorted up to the apartment where the woman of the house immediately put hands on her.

"Hello, _darling_. Don't you just look absolutely _delicious_," she purred.

Johanna stayed silent. These ones didn't like it when she spoke – they only wanted exaggerated moans when they touched her.

"We want you to put on a little presentation," The woman explained, leading Johanna into the living room, "with another Victor we rented for the evening."

Johanna felt a rare flicker of interest as she searched for this other Victor. Her eyes fell upon Finnick Odair. His hands were, unfortunately, familiar. They had often been asked to perform together, and she hated it when they had to. His eyes reminded her of her long dead love and it made her heart ache. She also knew that his heart belonged to a mad girl at home (they were friends; had become so during the numerous Capitol gatherings they had attended together - they understood each other and, in this place of strangeness, understanding was rare) and she hated every time she had to touch him.

She hated knowing that he could close his eyes, imagine his mad girl and be happy no matter what despicable act he might be doing because when she closed her eyes, all she saw was the melting flesh of a lover who regretted her.

_And all I do is kiss you, through the bars of a rhyme_

_Juliet, I'd do the stars with you any time_

Johanna listened as Peeta Mellark screamed and screamed – begging for the Capitol to stop, begging for the pain to be over. She wished she could tell him to stop asking; it would never be over. Once the Capitol hurt you once, you hurt forever. The Capitol caused pain so efficiently that the ache never left.

She could testify to that. She could testify to all that she had loved and all that she had lost. She wished she had died in the arena – that damned original arena that she had entered with her legs shaking and her heart racing. She had been innocent then, and not bitter. She wished she had died innocent; had lost her life. It would be easier to take than the loss of everything else – everything that had made her life worth it. There was no family anymore; no gentle mother's fingers or soothing father's laugh. There was no lover anymore; heartbeats under her ear and secrets whispered to the stars.

She had lost them all; no, that wasn't the right word. She had sacrificed them all to her own selfish desire to stay pure – to return to District 7 and act like _Victor_ wasn't a label for her. When the Capitol informed her that she belonged to them and she had laughed in their face, she had unknowingly signed their death warrants.

She hoped they had all forgiven her.

Peeta fell silent.

Johanna stared at her hands and waited. The peacekeepers, done with Peeta, would now be walking into her cell. They would grab her roughly, perhaps touch her and abuse her body, and demand that she talk to them.

She has told them that it wouldn't work but they didn't believe her. She was proving them right, though. Day after day they paraded into her cell, growling and muttering threats. And when they left, she was panting, covered in bruises and blood, but silent. They could touch her but she's been touched by so many people now that this doesn't faze her in the least. They could abuse her but she's numb to them now. President Snow, she's certain, has realized by now that he made a grave mistake. He played all of his cards, when it came to her, far too early. By stealing away everyone she loved years ago he has no leverage now.

And now Johanna finally has a chance to fight back. She's been part of the Rebellion. She has helped Katniss; has helped District 13. She saw her chance, her chance to finally fell the Capitol and its grotesque ways, and she snatched it in full. She had nothing left to do with her life but give it to the greater good. And if she died in the process, well, she would probably be happier.

"Well, well," growls the deep voice of a peacekeeper. "What kind of pathetic do we have here?"

She wonders how he can call her pathetic. She's not the willing slave to the Capitol.

The second peacekeeper, right behind the first one chuckled. Johanna resisted the urge to throw something at him.

The peacekeepers came further into the cell and Johanna closed her eyes. She kept herself perfectly still and tried not to think about their footsteps, about the hands that closed around her throat and then moved further down her emaciated body. She hardly noticed as a hand wrapped harshly in her hair, snapping her neck backward, and her hair was sheared off.

What was the theft of hair compared to the theft of her heart?

Eventually they left as they always did when they failed to make her talk. She would never speak to them – never tell them the secrets about the Rebellion that she kept locked in her brain. She knew things that the Capitol would wet themselves to get their hands on but she was stronger than that. Her hatred toward them fueled her silence.

After the footsteps had faded away, Peeta coughed, catching her attention.

Johanna moved closer to the wall and coughed in return, letting him know that she was ready to talk. If they leaned in close to the walls, they could briefly communicate without attracting any attention.

"How do you do it?" Peeta rasped, sounding weak.

"Do what?"

"Stay so strong."

"I'm not strong." Johanna denied. "I scream when it hurts, just like you."

"But you don't say anything. If I were in your position, if I had information they wanted, I'm sure that I would have spilled everything by now."

"You underestimate yourself," Johanna chided. She was convinced that his love for Katniss would bind his mouth as surely as her hatred for President Snow has bound hers.

"But how do you do it? How are you so strong?" Peeta asked again.

Johanna moved away from the wall, unwilling to reply. How did she explain to him that they had taken everything away from her that ever mattered and it was that bitter grudge that kept her silent? How could she explain that the years of giving and giving and giving to the rich had left her bitter and empty on the inside; the perfect warrior? She didn't have anything left to feel; she didn't have anything left to hurt.

She wasn't strong. She was just so broken that nothing else could be done to her.

**The song is **_**Romeo And Juliet **_**by **_**The Killers.**_** Thanks to my beta: Noble6. I own nothing recognizable.**

**There will be no update next week. It will resume the week after.**

**~TLL~**


	9. Rory & Prim

_Juliet, when we made love, you used to cry_

_You said, "I love you like the stars above, I'll love you till I die"_

"Hey, Prim, are you going to be okay?"

I dropped my eyes away from Rory, down to the goat cheese and berries I had brought to school for lunch. I picked a crumb off the cheese and pushed it between my lips.

"Prim?" Rory spoke my name again.

I didn't respond. I didn't know how. It was a ludicrous question. Okay? Okay? How could I _possibly_ be okay when my sister had given herself for me? She was in the arena, as I was sitting here eating lunch, fighting for her life. And it was all because of me.

I jumped as Rory's hand grazed my own. I finally brought my eyes up to meet his – grey Seam eyes, just like Katniss' eyes.

"Yes, Rory?" I said, trying to sound as normal as possible.

"I asked if you were going to be okay."

I put on a smile; she would want me to be happy, no matter what happened to her. If she could try to win for me, I could try to be happy for her. "I'll be all right."

"Do you want to do something after school?" Rory wondered. "I could try to take your mind off things."

This time, my smile was more genuine. I didn't know if it would be possible for me to be distracted but if anyone could do such a thing, it would be Rory Hawthorne. "I would really like that."

"Good. Now, eat your berries and your cheese. You're thin enough, Primrose."

I twirled the end of my braid anxiously and did as he asked. As I chewed on my cheese, I caught Rory's eye. And for the first time, something surged within me. There was something warm in the pit of my stomach as I thought of Rory Hawthorne and I wasn't sure if I liked it one bit.

I wished I could talk to my sister about it.

When the end of the day came, and the students began to stream out the front door, Rory caught my hand so I wouldn't be lost. Our fingers twined together, as they must have a thousand times before, but for some reason, this felt different. This felt less like holding hands with Rory – my best friend – and more like holding hands with Rory – a boy.

"I want to take you somewhere," Rory told me.

"Where?"

"It's a surprise."

"Rory … I'm not really in the mood for surprises. After the Reaping day, I've had enough with the unexpected."

Rory's lopsided grin faded a little at my words. "I understand. But, it really is a special place. Don't you trust me?"

"I trust you."

"Then, come on."

I nodded and Rory tugged me along. We wound through District 12, waving to people we knew. We had to stop multiple times for people to offer me condolences on my sister. Every time they did, I wanted to explode with uncharacteristic rage. Katniss wasn't dead. Katniss _would_ come home. She promised me she would. But I shook their hands and hugged them; thanked them for their consideration. Sometimes, they tried to tuck goodies into the palm of my hand or into my pockets. I always tried to give them back. No one could afford to give me treats – no one but the baker who inexplicably gave me cookies every Monday morning on my way to school.

Rory finally brought me to the fence that surrounded District 12. I balked at the sight of the woods.

"I can't go in there," I squeaked.

Rory looked over his shoulder at me. "Why not?"

"Because…" _because that's her domain; because I remembered the blood of animals as I trucked after her; because I was frightened; because it wasn't home; because what if I got in trouble for going into the woods and she was punished for it?_ "I just can't."

"I really think you should come with me, Prim." Rory held out his hand.

I took it.

My heart longed for my sister and if there was one place I could feel close to her, it would be in the woods of District 12.

Rory and I stumbled through the woods, going much deeper than I had ever anticipated going.

"We're going to get lost."

Rory, ahead of me, shook his head. "We're not lost. We're here."

I looked around. "Where's here?"

Rory hopped up on the boulder. "Gale told me about this place," he said, pulling me up to sit next to him.

"Gale?"

"He said that this place was really special to him and Katniss," Rory knocked his heels against the rock, "And I was thinking that you would like to see it – you know, since they spent so much time out here."

"Thanks Rory," I breathed.

I closed my eyes, took in the feel of the stone beneath me; the sound of the wind rushing between the leaves; and I imagined Katniss sitting here and doing the exact same thing. I imagined her hands running over the same cracks in the stone; I imagined her breaths sailing along the same winds. I wondered what she had thought when she sat here.

"I just wanted you to feel better," Rory said after a moment. "I know it's been hard and that no one can really make you feel better now but I…" Rory shrugged, "I thought I could give it a try."

I smiled at him. "You are really sweet. And, uhm," the feeling in the pit of my stomach came rushing back to me in this moment, "you do make me feel better."

I bit my bottom lip and was surprised to find that I was blushing.

Rory was completely silent for a long time – so long that I thought I'd said something wrong.

"Hey, Prim?"

"Yes, Rory?"

I looked up at him, and he was much closer than I had anticipated; much closer than he had ever been to me.

And that was the first time I kissed a boy.

_There's a place for us, you know the movie song_

_When you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?_

"Hey, Prim?"

"Yes, Rory?"

"What do you think is happening out there?" Rory whispered.

"I don't know," I said, choking my tears down and curling deeper into his arms. I didn't want to think about what was happening outside of District 13. I didn't want to think of what kind of danger my sister was in or that Gale was in; I didn't want to think of the war, death, and destruction that was happening close by.

I wanted to think of cheerful things. I wanted to think of my goat, my Lady, licking my cheek after I saved her life. I wanted to think of Katniss singing to me. I wanted to think of the way the rain smelled when it hit the Earth. I wanted to think of the first time I kissed Rory. I wanted to think of happy, beautiful things – the complete opposite of the way things are now.

"Shh," Rory soothed, twirling one of my braids around the palm of his hands. "It'll be all right."

"I'm holding you to that," I swore.

"I can live with that." Rory mused. "You can hold me to this too: the war will end soon; we'll get to go home – all of us. Doesn't that sound wonderful?"

I nodded. "It won't be the same."

"No..." Rory sighed, "It won't. But, home is home, right?"

"Home is where your heart is," I quoted my father. I remembered, very clearly, him saying it to my mother once.

"Then my home, right now, is District 13," Rory concluded.

"I think my home is a lot of different places right now," I confided. "Part of my home is here, but part of it is also wherever Katniss is, and I think a part of my heart will always be in District 12."

We stayed quiet for a long time. I listened to Rory's heart thud against my ear and I tried to focus on the happier days. Eventually, Buttercup wandered in to see us. I called him over and he curled up in my lap. He meowed at Rory, but was no longer opposed to the boy as he had once been.

I ran my hand along Buttercup's spine. "Do you remember the first day you met Buttercup?" I asked Rory.

I felt him nod. "He didn't like me."

I smiled at the memory. "I think it would be fairer to say he hated you." I scratched under Buttercup's chin and he began to purr, looking at me. "But you're such a nice kitty it's hard to imagine you hating anyone, isn't it?" I cooed.

"Gale said that Katniss says –"

Buttercup hissed at Katniss' name.

"That Buttercup hates everyone who isn't me," I recited. "And that she'll cook him."

"I don't think cat would be very tasty," Rory commented.

"And she would never cook him," I added with conviction. "I love him far too much to ever let anyone hurt him."

"Didn't Katniss try to kill him?"

Buttercup hissed again.

"Shh," I chastised Rory, placing my hands over Buttercup's ears. "We don't talk about the early days."

I removed my hands from his ears.

"Sorry, Buttercup," Rory apologized to my cat.

I looked over my shoulder and smiled at him. I didn't know many boys who would say he was sorry to a cat, and I knew that under any other circumstance Rory might not have, but he did it because I liked him to.

Buttercup glared mildly at Rory, flicked his tail, and resumed purring.

"My boy," I murmured.

"I thought that was _me_," Rory exclaimed.

"My kitty will always be my first boy," I vowed. I glanced up at Rory, who was pouting at me. "But I guess, if you really want, you could be my boy too."

Rory wrapped his arms tight around me, causing me to roll toward him. Buttercup yelped and jumped from my lap. I looked up at Rory, my breath catching as he looked back at me. Softly, he kissed me. I smiled into his lips.

"You're really wonderful, you know that, right?"

"You're really wonderful too," I replied shyly.

Rory looked like he was about to say something more but there was a commotion coming from the hallway. I jumped to my feet, concerned that something might have happened to Katniss. Rory followed my motion, equally worried about Gale. We rushed to the doorway, where I grabbed the shoulder of a passing woman.

"What's going on?" I asked, recognizing her. She was a nurse; we had often worked together when I was volunteering in District 13's hospital.

"We have been ordered to leave-" She stuttered, breathing heavily.

"Like an evacuation?" Rory demanded from behind me.

Fear seized my heart. Where would we go if District 13 wasn't safe anymore?

"No – we the nurses," she explained. "There was heavy fighting in the Capitol – so many wounded. They want people to go and help heal."

"I want to go!" I said immediately.

"We have room for a few more, but we need to go quickly."

I made a move to follow her but Rory grabbed my hand.

"You can't go!"

"Why not?"

"It's dangerous out there; it's a damn war, Prim."

"I need to help people, Rory. I _have_ to."

Rory looked down at his shoes. "I can't change your mind, can I?"

"I'll come back."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

"Hey, Prim?"

"Yes, Rory?"

I was in his arms. He gave me a sweet, gentle kiss and then he released me. I didn't want to let go, but I knew it was my duty – my calling – to go and help those who needed it.

I waved goodbye to him and followed the nurse so we could go to the Capitol. I looked over my shoulder one last time.

And that was the last time I ever saw Rory Hawthorne.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my beta: Noble6. The song is **_**Romeo And Juliet**_** by **_**The Killers**_**.**

**~TLL~**


	10. Gale & Madge

_A lovestruck Romeo, he sings the streets of serenade_

_Laying everybody low with a love song that he made_

"Gale," Madge called out to the elder boy's retreating back. "Gale!" She barked more forcefully but he still didn't turn around.

Madge huffed, gathered her school skirt in one hand, and took off down the street after him. She caught him by the shoulder, yanking him around to face her. She was surprised he turned – he was so much stronger than her, that if he hadn't wanted to move, she couldn't have made him.

"Gale," She puffed, dropping her skirt and placing her hands on her hips. "I've been trying to talk to you."

His grey eyes – Seam eyes – narrowed at her. "You ever think I don't want to talk to you?"

"Oh, I know you don't want to," Madge agreed lightly.

"Then why are you bothering me?" Gale snarled.

Madge tried not to let him intimidate her. After all, Katniss had never intimidated her (well, perhaps a little in the very beginning of their fledgling friendship) and Gale just wasn't as terrifying as his best friend. However, Madge was just a girl and Gale was a very large boy, who just happened to be glaring at her.

But he wasn't walking away from her.

Madge was good at seeing silver linings.

"I think you need to."

Gale barked a bitter laugh. "Oh yeah? And why would I need to do a thing like that?"

"Stop storming around and pretending like you are the only one of us who cared about Katniss. She was my friend too!"

"You ignorant little town girl," Gale set his jaw and growled at her. "How dare you? You couldn't possibly know her the way I do; care about her the way I do. How did she matter to you, huh? You in your town house, surrounded by all your fancy dresses and darling trinkets, while she starves to death in the Seam; it disgusts me that you dare say you were her friend."

And for the first time in her life, Madge found herself both swearing at, and hitting, someone. "Fuck you!" She shrieked, throwing a fist against his chest. "Fuck you!" She repeated and punched him again because it felt so good the first time around.

"Don't you judge my friendship with Katniss. And what do you expect me to do, Gale? Do you expect me to steal money from my father – which isn't my father's, by the way; everything I get is second hand from the Capitol. I bet you didn't know that. I bet you didn't know that if I dared give any of my 'fancy dresses and darling trinkets' away it could be seen as a sign of rebellion; a sign that my father is turning against the Capitol. I could get my entire family killed if I tried to help someone – and change the fate of Panem? Do you expect me to alter the universe? I don't have that kind of power, Gale. I'm as much of a pawn as you are but the fact that I wear the Capitol face makes you think that I'm not. You think that because I own a dress that I'm one of them. I'm not one of them Gale and Katniss knew that.

"Katniss was my friend. She was your best friend but that doesn't take away from the fact that I love her too."

Something in his flinty eyes gave. Something in the deep lines around his mouth softened. "You love her too, eh?"

"Whether you want to believe it or not, I care about her."

Gale looked down at Madge and studied her. He had never actually looked at the girl from town before. He had always dismissed her. She was just a blonde in a dress. But now he looked at the things that distinctly made her _Madge_. She had beauty marks across her pale skin; her bangs were cut on a slant; she had a habit of biting her bottom lip when she finished talking.

"So, friend of Katniss," Gale smirked, "why should I do a thing like talk to you?"

Madge swallowed. "Because it's good to talk about things, especially if things are bothering you. And, uhm, well … I know you have your brothers and your mother but … with Katniss gone, I don't have anyone to talk to. And, you know, it would be nice to have someone else to talk to."

Gale's amused expression deepened. "And why do you think I'd be a good someone else to talk to?"

"You were good enough for Katniss."

"Because Katniss is an excellent judge of character," Gale scoffed. His eyes trailed over her again, and he couldn't resist taking another, teasing, shot at her. _"Obviously."_

"I think her choice of befriending _you_ says more about her taste than her choice in befriending _me_." Madge returned.

"All right," Gale turned on his heel. "You win."

He began to walk away and heard her scrabble to keep with his quick pace.

"Win?" She looked confused as she appeared at his elbow. "What do I win?"

"I think talking to you would be nice," Gale revealed.

"Is that why you're walking away from me?" Madge demanded.

"I'm not walking away from you," Gale shook his head at her, "but I have things to do and you can join me if you like."

Madge was quiet for a moment. "Yes. I think I would like that."

Gale expected her to balk when they reached the fence surrounding District 12 but to her credit, Madge didn't even look surprised at where they were.

"After you," Gale invited, gesturing to the whole in the fence.

Madge grinned at him and then ducked under the fence. She waited until he joined her and then walked – near silently – through the trees with him.

Gale had to admit, he was mesmerized by the town girl who looked totally at home in the woods.

_Find a convenient streetlight, steps out of the shade_

_He says something like, "You and me, babe, how about it?"_

"I still hate seeing them dead," Madge muses, running a hand over the soft fur of a rabbit that had been caught in one of Gale's snares.

"A necessary death," Gale grunted.

"Well I understand it; how else would you or half of the District eat if you didn't come out here and hunt? But just because I understand why death is a part of life, that doesn't mean I have to enjoy death." She paused. "Do you _enjoy_ death?"

Gale shook his head, amazed that she would even ask it. "No. I don't understand how someone could enjoy death." His face twisted and he muttered, "Those damn games."

"Less than half the tributes left," Madge mentioned, though sensitively. It was impossible to predict Gale's reaction whenever the Capitol, the Hunger Games, or Katniss was mentioned to him – he would either get explosive or completely silent. Madge didn't know how to react when he was angry and he was eerie when he was silent – she didn't know which she preferred. "And she's doing wonderfully."

"Yeah, well," Gale swallowed the knot in his throat. "She promised Prim she would try to win. Prim's the only one Catnip cares for; she wouldn't let Prim down."

"Well, thank goodness she's stubborn."

Gale rolled his eyes, but his face seemed less stressed than it had a moment ago. "Do you know how many times I cursed that stubbornness? Stubborn Catnip; sticking her nose in where it didn't belong. Guess it's keeping her alive now."

Madge crossed her arms. "You only hate the fact that she's stubborn because you're so stubborn."

Gale gave her an 'oh please' look. "That's not the reason I hate it."

"You don't think so?" Madge challenged.

"No," Gale said, setting his jaw.

"And why not?" Madge pushed.

"Because you're stubborn and I've never cursed that fact."

Madge scoffed at him. "I don't think I'm stubborn."

Gale stopped walking – also forcing her to halt – and turned to face her. "Really now? You don't think you're stubborn?"

Madge shook her head – the long, loose strands of hair flying about her face.

"And why not?" Gale questioned, cocking his head to the side in curiosity.

"Because ladies aren't stubborn!" Madge cackled, skipping past him.

"And what kind of a lady hangs out in the woods with a Seam boy?" Gale called after her.

Madge turned to face him, biting her lower lip in thought. "Ah…"

"A rebellious one," Gale filled in the answer for her. "A _stubborn_ one."

He approached her slowly. She stayed motionless, waiting for him to come to her.

"I'm not stubborn," Madge breathed in protest as soon as he was close enough to her.

"Lady Madge, you are _very _stubborn."

"If I'm a lady, you should treat me like one." She glanced at him coyly. "Even Seam boys should know how to act in the presence of a lady."

"Hmm," Gale mused, running his dirty fingers along her pristine jawbone almost without thinking, "but you're in the woods – this is the Seam boy's territory. And do you know what a Seam boy does when he finds a lady in his woods?"

"What?" Madge asked as her breath hitched and she began to tremble from the feeling of his hands on her skin.

Gale leaned close to her and she could smell an earth scent rolling off of him in intoxicating waves. She could feel his breath playing along her ear and she tried not to shiver in response.

"He kisses her," Gale revealed pressing his lips to hers.

He wasn't the first boy Madge had kissed but he was her first Seam boy. Her first Seam boy with grey eyes, olive skin, and dark hair that she tangled her pale, manicured fingers in. She played her hands along the expanse of his shoulders as he gripped her waist tightly, pulling her ever closer to him. She could feel his heartbeat under her palm, feel his lungs expand as he gasped for breath, when she ran her hands along his torso trying to memorize every inch of him while she still had the chance.

Because even as she was being swept up in the moment, Madge knew better. Madge knew, as Gale surely did, that ladies from the town didn't marry boys from the Seam and boys from the Seam didn't fall in love with the ladies from town. Even as he kissed her, even as she wished he would never stop kissing her, Madge knew that this would crumble in their hands; it didn't matter how stubborn either of them were.

She counted down the days until it was over. It came as quickly as she had expected. They shared a few more stolen kisses; sweet moments that stole her breath. And then it was all gone.

The moment ended in school. They were sitting at their desks, dutifully listening to the teacher, when the ancient T.V. in the corner flickered to life. Madge had immediately glanced at Gale but he wasn't looking back at her; his gaze was focused intently on the television. And after those awful moments when it looked like Katniss would commit suicide, it was revealed that both she and Peeta would be coming home.

Madge was elated – she really, truly was. Her childhood friend – Peeta – and her current friend – Katniss – were both coming home. No words could describe how excited she was to see them again. But underneath the excitement, she could feel her heart break. Her days with her Seam boy were over and done with. She had finally seen the truth she had tried to vainly to be blind to – the truth that had been easy to be blind to when Gale's lips were on hers and she was the one trekking behind him through the woods.

But a person cannot stay blind forever. Eventually eyes open and the truth comes to light.

And the truth was this: Seam boys don't love ladies from the town; they love huntresses from the Seam.

**Voila. The last chapter.**

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my beta: Noble6. The song is **_**Romeo And Juliet **_**by **_**The Killers**_**.**

**~TLL~**


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